


Fuck off, Wyatt

by RawNoodlewKetchupandPickledfFries



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Best Friends, Coffee, Friendship, Multi, Paranoia, Passive-aggression, Platonic Romance, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28048155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RawNoodlewKetchupandPickledfFries/pseuds/RawNoodlewKetchupandPickledfFries
Summary: (they don't have fucking tags lmao but Otter & Wyatt being besties while everyone quietly judges Otter)It was the first thing out of Otter's mouth when the man entered the room and acknowledged him, a small, smug grin on the Brit's face as he approached."G'day, Otter,"Wyatt cheerfully walked over, a bounce in his step, his accent making the 't's pop out of his words. Wyatt had this underlying tone, and although he'd never say it, he knew he was better, and it drove Otter insane how his teammate was endlessly tolerant of him and rubbed it in his face.Otter seethed."Fuck off, Wyatt."
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Fuck off, Wyatt

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request, yay
> 
> You bet your ass I did research, these two are a riot. It sucks though, because neither of them have existing tags. Wtf Archive? How has nobody gotten to these two? We have Nikto and Ghost and they don't even interact in game, these two are like that old married couple on a porch in the south. But one's a brit and the other is Oscar the grouch. 
> 
> With guns. 
> 
> Anyway, 
> 
> -RNWKAPF out. ;)

There was something mind numbing about sitting in front of a shitty projected image in an uncomfortable chair and staring into the dull blue light in the darkness. It brought him back to his primary days in the classroom, windows shuttered, teaches sat stiffly in her desk, ignoring the students. You got lost just staring at the flickering images, occasional people walking past to disrupt the washed out colors with contrasted black shadows.

Otter probably looked like a zombie by the time the projector above him finally clicked off, and had to close his mouth and bite his tongue so he didn't spit like a sailor when the briefing finally ended. The Stark outline of his Captain appeared, rambling off something about importance of the mission, and then dismissed them. Otter lulled through this, his mind on getting a cup of coffee and sulking in the rec room. No doubt one of his touchy mates would blather about the mission to him while he tried getting some down time, so he didn't worry about missing out out on the specifics.

To say Otter was the first out of the room was an understatement. If people could move at the speed of sound, he was mach 20. The door to the large- rather shittily constructed- room clicked shut after he left, leaving his comrades to puzzle over how to turn the handle themselves.

Otter walked down the halls at a quick pace, ignoring everyone who greeted them on the way; cheeky middle finger from Mara, hard stare from Ghost, and a disgusted look from Charly that suggested Otter was a rapist or something. He snorted to himself as she passed, biting back another slew of curses in her name. 

Otter wasn't too horribly social. He didn't make friends, didn't really have anybody besides some distant mates back home in Australia. He'd talk, sure, but it was getting him to keep talking, getting him to say something genuine and meaningful besides hostile small talk that was the hard part. Otter didn't mind being alone, it was part of his job, and he enjoyed his job. 

Sometimes, maybe it did feel lonely.

Cutting off his quiet trail of thought, he stalked into the cafeteria, bursting past double doors. He wasn't a broad-shouldered, hulking beast. He was wiry, tall, not a sack of bones. Hence the callsign, Otter. Fluid. Quick. Vicious. Walking over to the coffee cart in the corner wasn't a challenge, it was putting up with the operators that were already there. He exchanged quick conversation, or sometimes just flat out ignored them. 

"How's hunting, Otter?" Would ask a raspy British voice. Unlike other voices, Otter knew not to disregard this one or he'd get reprimanded into oblivion and back.

Otter looked up from the cup he was assembling, turning his gaze to the shorter man. Captain John Price, in all his mustached glory, stood beside him, sipping his drink, which he had in a mug. Otter pinched his paper cup lightly, feeling a small burst of anxiety as he scrambled for a response.

"Dry as a desert, Captain." He said smoothly, quietly, non-threatening. He wasn't scared of Price, no; but his respect, although nonexistent for others, was immense for Price. Man was a legend. Least he could do was make small talk with the bloody brit. 

The older offered that iconic smile of his through his mustache before turning and walking off, meeting a mohawked soldier at an exit to the cafeteria that lead directly outside, delving into chatter as the door shut. He watched them through the glass door for a moment as the younger one pulled out a cigarette and lit it, beaming at his mentor.

Otter returned to his beverage, then followed suit and left the area, feeling a few disdainful gazes follow him out. 

He contained a glare over his shoulder.

-

It was the first thing out of Otter's mouth when the man entered the room and acknowledged him, a small, smug grin on the Brit's face as he approached. 

"G'day, Otter," 

Wyatt cheerfully walked over, a bounce in his step, his accent making the 't's pop out of his words. Wyatt had this underlying tone, and although he'd never say it, he knew he was better, and it drove Otter insane how his teammate was endlessly tolerant of him and rubbed it in his face.

Otter seethed.

"Fuck off, Wyatt."

Wyatt didn't seem phased in the slightest as he took a seat next to his mate, who was sat on the shitty couch in the rec room, watching whatever was on the tele. Positivity radiated off the brit in waves, and instead of soaking it up and returning it, Otter chose to give him the cold shoulder. He scowled as Wyatt made to face him, still smiling away.

If you looked up the word "happy", Wyatt's picture was next to it. 

"You look a little sad, Otter." Commented Wyatt in that sympathetic, almost soft way of his. 

Otter withheld an angry sigh, muttering crudely, "I'm not sad, I'm livid, or couldn't you tell?".

"Why don't you shoot someone, mate? It'll make you feel better."

Sometimes, even for Otter, it got difficult trying to be mean to Wyatt. He sounded like he genuinely gave a shit, but he was no fool; brits were masters of sarcasm. He just wasn't sure if Wyatt meant it, or was being a dick on purpose to get under his skin and make him more pissy.

"I got just the sod in mind." Hissed Otter, turning his gaze to the tele after a loathsome glare at his comrade. 

He wasn't even sure what he was watching; football. Or was it soccer? Whatever. He ignored as Wyatt shrugged off the implied threat, and leaned back into the decaying tan leather of the odd-smelling couch, also turning his gaze to the beat up tele. They watched for a while, a few operators entering and exiting as the morning wore on. 

Otter, though he kept his hopes down, began quietly rooting for a team; and by the looks of it, Wyatt was, too. Considering the other was on the edge of his seat, fists clenched, and shouting every time the other team scored or even came close. Otter on the other hand, kept the little victories himself, mutely cheering on the team in his mind with a determined expression, trying not to look too into the game. 

Suddenly, Otter's goalie mad a mad slide as the opposing team's head made a vicious kick for the net, missing the ball by mere inches. His eyes widened as Wyatt gave a barking laugh at Otter's reaction, the Aussie fuming at the loss as the crowds on the tele roared.

He snapped his gaze over to Wyatt, who out his hands up in a mock, "don't hurt me" as he grinned. 

"Fuck up with that Wyatt, your team's shit anyway," Otter mumbled after his anger disappeared. He couldn't find it in himself to lash out at Wyatt, even after holding back on others all morning. 

"You said that." 

"Yeah, I did." 

Wyatt gained the soft tone that Otter still couldn't tell if was sarcastic. "Pucker up, mate; your team's got a winning streak. They'll pull up.". Of course Wyatt watched football. He probably adopted orphans, too. 

Otter gave Wyatt a stare like he'd just said the dumbest thing ever, then scowled, then looked back to the tele, shaking his head.

Wyatt just smiled.


End file.
